_ON THE BEACH_
Ramsay felt an instant tension and a bristling anger, and he knew now
that he should have connected two incidents. The man who had written to
him and offered him a job in the Three Points tannery had signed his
name 'Devlin Chadbourne.' Devlin Chadbourne--Devil Chad--and Ramsay took
a backward step. Never before had he met a man so capable of arousing in
him a cordial dislike that was almost an urge to start fighting
immediately.
"Where's the _Holter_?" Devil Chad demanded.
"I sent her back to Milwaukee after Captain Schultz let me off here,"
Ramsay said sarcastically.
"Don't get smart with me, boy." Devil Chad glowered. "You was on the
_Holter_ when she sailed."
"Where were you?" Ramsay demanded.
"I'll ask the questions here!" Devil Chad's thick lips curled in an ugly
oblong. "Where's the _Holter_?"
"At the bottom of Lake Michigan!" Ramsay flared. "Captain Schultz and
one of your deck hands are lying drowned on the beach! I don't know
where the others are."
Devil Chad's glass balls of eyes glinted. His face twisted into a
horrible glare, and every inch of his big frame seemed to shrink and
swell with the rage that consumed him. "You mean to tell me," he
demanded furiously, "that all them hides was lost?"
"Men were lost," Ramsay pointed out.
"You mean to tell me," Devil Chad repeated, as though he had not heard
Ramsay, "that all them hides was lost?"
"Swim out and get 'em," Ramsay invited. "I'll show you the place where I
landed, and the _Holter_ can't be more than a couple of miles out in the
lake."
"What did Schultz do?" Devil Chad demanded.
"Drowned."
"You're pretty flip, boy," Devil Chad warned, "an' I don't put up with
flip people. You tell me what happened."
"Your greasy tub was carrying one third more than ever should have been
put on her, her equipment was no good, we ran into a storm and the
engines quit."
"All them hides lost." Devil Chad was overwhelmed by this personal
tragedy and could think of nothing else. "Couldn't you of done
somethin'?"
"It wasn't my ship and they weren't my hides. What are you going to do
for the families of the men who were lost?"
"Why should I do anything? They knew when they signed on that they was
runnin' risks." Devil Chad turned his unreadable eyes squarely on
Ramsay. "What do you want here?"
"Nothing."
"Ain't you the boy who wrote me from New York, an' asked me for a job?"
The man at the vat continued working and others stayed at their tasks,
but Ramsay was aware of a rippling under-current. There was an
uneasiness among the men, and a fear; and in spite of the fact that they
kept busy they turned covert eyes on Ramsay and Devil Chad. The boy felt
a flashing anger. Who was this man, and what was he, that so many others
could live in almost craven fear of him?
"If you are," Devil Chad continued, still holding Ramsay in the cage of
his eyes, "you can have the job but I hold back twenty-five cents a day
until them hides are paid for."
"Take your job!" Ramsay exploded, "and go plumb to the bottom of the
lake with it!"
"I warned you, boy," Devil Chad was talking softly now. "I warned you. I
don't put up with flip people, an' now I'm goin' to teach you the lesson
that I should of given you on the _Holter_."
"Why didn't you sail on the _Holter_?" Ramsay demanded.
Devil Chad made no answer. He was in a half-crouch, his huge head bent
to his chest and his fists knotted so tightly that the knuckles were
whitened. His shaggy hair tumbled forward on his forehead, and his eyes
still held no expression.
Ramsay raised his voice so all in the building could hear. "You filthy
pup! You lily-livered slug! You knew the _Holter_ was going to the
bottom some day! Even your deck hand knew it! You sent other men out to
die, but didn't risk yourself! You haven't got enough money to hire me
to work for you!"
Devil Chad was inching forward, his head still bent; and when he had
advanced a foot, he sprang. It was the rush of a bull, but not a
cumbersome bull. He flung out both arms, intending to crush Ramsay to
his chest and break his ribs. It was the only way Devil Chad knew how to
fight, but the boy knew other tricks.
When the bigger, heavier man launched his charge, Ramsay stood still. He
saw those massive stretched arms, and knew their purpose, but he did not
move until Devil Chad flung them out for his crushing embrace. Then, and
only then, did Ramsay act.
He flitted aside, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and
whirling even as he evaded the other's lunge. Like a snapping whip his
clenched right fist flicked in to deliver a stinging blow to the side of
his enemy's head. But the blow did little except spin Devil Chad around
and arouse a mighty bellow in the depths of his enormous chest.
Ramsay remained poised, alert for the next charge, and an almost grim
satisfaction drove other thoughts from his mind. He had not wanted this
fight and had not forced it, but within him there was a curious feeling
that it was fore-ordained, and now that it was here, he relished it.
Devil Chad was not a man. He was an animal who thought as an animal
thinks. Other men, other human beings, had lost their lives in his
overloaded, unseaworthy ship, and all this brute could think of was the
fact that he had lost his cargo.
Devil Chad's eyes, even in the heat of battle, remained opaque and
strangely without expression. It was only his face, like a rubber mask
expertly molded to form an expression of rage, that betrayed his fury.
He swung heavily, running forward even as he launched his blow, and
Ramsay ducked beneath it. He came up to land a hard left and a right on
Devil Chad's jaw.
He might as well have struck a granite boulder. Devil Chad did not even
flinch and the boy knew a moment's uncertainty. His enemy was a bull,
but bulls were felled with pole-axes, not with fists. Ramsay backed
lightly away.
All about now, knowing that Devil Chad was engrossed in the fight and
had no time for them, men had openly stopped work and were staring at
the battlers. On the faces of some was written incredulity. Some looked
on with delighted interest, and an expectant smile lighted the swarthy
features of a little Frenchman who had stopped moving cattle hides to
watch Ramsay weave away from Devil Chad. There was no man here who, in
some silent way, did not cheer the boy on, but there were none who
expected him to win. All knew their master.
Devil Chad rushed again, swinging his fists like pistons as he did so,
and again Ramsay side-stepped. He landed a fierce blow squarely on the
other's nose and was gratified to see a crimson stream of blood spout
forth to mingle darkly with his antagonist's black beard and mustache. A
cold uncertainty rose within Ramsay.
He had fought before, many times, and he had defeated his opponents and
had been defeated, but never before had he fought a man just like this
one. Devil Chad, apparently, was able to absorb an endless amount of
punishment with no effect whatever on himself. He was as tough as one of
the trees that grew on the outskirts of Three Points.
Ramsay risked a fleeting backward glance to see where he was going, and
edged away from the wall. He was breathing hard because of the
tremendous physical effort he had exerted, but he was far from exhausted
and he knew that, as long as he could keep the battle in the open, he
could avoid the other's charges. But the certainty that he could not win
this battle solidified. It seemed possible to pound Devil Chad all day
long without hurting him at all.
"Kill him!" an excited man shouted.
Devil Chad paused just long enough to locate and identify this rash
employee who dared encourage his enemy, and Ramsay felt a nausea in the
pit of his stomach. When the battle ended, no matter who won, at least
one man would have some explaining to do and probably a beating to take.
The boy kept his eyes on Devil Chad, anticipating the other's next move.
Then he tripped over an unseen and unsuspected block of wood and fell
backward.
Even as he fell he tried to pick himself up and scoot out of the way.
But a bludgeon, the toe of Devil Chad's heavy boot, collided soddenly
with his ribs and a sickening pain shot through his entire body. He
turned, snatching furiously at the boot as it was raised again and still
trying to wriggle away. His arm flipped convulsively as Devil Chad
kicked him squarely on the wrist, and he felt a creeping numbness that
began there and spread to his shoulder.
He rolled to escape his tormentor, rolled again, and struggled to his
hands and knees. Vaguely, as though he were viewing it in some fantastic
dream, he saw the big black boot flying at his head. The boot was a huge
thing and so clearly-outlined that Ramsay saw every tiny wrinkle in it.
He was aware of the stitching where the ponderous sole joined the upper
leather, and he knew that he must get away. But that was a vague and
misty thought, one he seemed unable to carry farther. A mighty rage
flared within him.
No more than a split second elapsed before the boot struck, but it
seemed like hours. Ramsay was aware of the fact that his two silver
dollars, his last money, rolled out of his pockets and across the
tannery's floor. A thousand colored lights danced in his head, and then
he was back on the lake.
He had loved the lake, he remembered, and there was something
wonderfully cool and refreshing about returning to it. A small boat with
a crazy Dutch fisherman at her tiller danced out of the lake's gray
stretches and sported gracefully before him. On top of the mast was a
tame sea gull that clicked his mandibles and fluttered his wings. Ramsay
even saw the boat's name written in fine script across her bows. She was
the _Spray_.
The _Spray_ hove to very close to Ramsay, and her skipper looked at him.
He was a tall man, very powerful, and he was blond and easily laughing.
There was no grimness about him, only grace and light spirit. Several
men had gone sailing on a raft made of cattle hides, he told Ramsay, and
they were in great trouble out on the lake. Did Ramsay care to go with
him and help bring the unfortunates safely back? The sea gull, of
course, would help too.
When Ramsay pretended not to hear, the crazy Dutch fisherman obligingly
repeated his information. Again Ramsay pretended not to hear; whereupon
the Dutch fisherman caught up a wooden bucket, dipped it into the lake
and showered him with ice-cold water. He held the bucket waist-high, as
though wondering whether more water was necessary, and the twinkle
remained in his eyes and the laugh on his lips. It was impossible to be
angry with him. Laughing back, Ramsay agreed to go help the foolish men
who had sailed away on the cattle hides.
Then he awakened, to find a woman bathing his face with cold water.
For a moment she was a distorted picture, a hazy vision that advanced
toward him and retreated far away. Again Ramsay almost lost himself in
the dim world into which Devil Chad's boots had kicked him. The cold
cloth on his face brought him back, and he opened his eyes to see the
woman very clearly.
She was small, with a worn face, so weary from endless toil that the
skin was drawn tightly over it. But her eyes were the brownest, the
softest and the gentlest Ramsay had ever seen. Black hair was combed
smoothly back on her head and caught in a knot at the base of her neck.
Again she laid the cold cloth on his face, and the boy closed his eyes
at the luxury of such a thing. Then he spoke, "Where am I?"
"_Sh-h._ Don't try to talk, M'sieu."
The woman, unmistakably French, rose and went into another room. Ramsay
looked about him.
The room in which he lay was walled with rough, unplaned boards, and the
ceiling was made of the same material. Only the floor, scrubbed so
carefully that it glowed like a polished diamond, was of smooth boards.
Light was admitted by a single small pane of glass, and the light
reflected on a crucifix that hung on the far wall. There were a few
pictures, yellow with age, a table over which a deer skin was gracefully
draped, and a candle-holder with a half-burned candle. Everything was
neat and spotlessly clean.
The woman came back bearing a hollowed-out gourd. She passed an arm
around Ramsay's shoulders--despite her small size she was surprisingly
strong--and assisted him to a half-sitting position. She held the gourd
to his lips.
Ramsay drank deeply, and fell back sputtering. The gourd was
partly-filled with cold water and partly with a whisky, so strong and
violent that it burned his mouth and lips. He lay blinking, while tears
welled in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. The whisky, doubtless
homemade, was strong enough to choke a horse. But, after a half-minute,
it made itself felt. A warm glow spread from the roots of Ramsay's hair
to the tips of his toes. Some of his many aches and pains lessened.
"More?" the woman inquired softly.
"Uh ... No--no thank you."
She put the gourd on the table and came over to lay a hand on his
forehead. It was a calloused and work-hardened hand, but so gentle was
she that her caress was scarcely a feather's touch. Ramsay smiled his
thanks.
"How did I get here?" he asked again.
"My man, Pierre LeDou, he brought you. But now you must rest, M'sieu,
and try to sleep. Badly have you been hurt."
The woman drew an exquisite, hand-sewn lace curtain, an incongruous
thing in these rough surroundings, over the window, and semi-gloom
reigned in the room. She tiptoed out, closing the door behind her, and
Ramsay was left alone with his thoughts.
That mighty rage mounted within him again. He had been fighting with
Devil Chad, he remembered, and not doing badly until he fell over some
unseen object. Then he had been kicked into--into this. Experimentally
Ramsay tried to move his legs, and found that he could do so. He
clenched and unclenched his fists, and there in the half-light of an
unknown room, in a stranger's house, he made a solemn vow. One day, no
matter what else happened, he and Devil Chad would meet again. Devil
Chad would pay, in full, for every twinge Ramsay suffered. In that
moment Ramsay knew that he was not afraid.
His burning anger became tempered with pleasant wonder. This was a harsh
land, but there was room for tenderness. He was a stranger and had been
in Three Points only long enough to get himself kicked into
insensibility, but there were those in Three Points who knew compassion
and friendship. Otherwise, he would not now be lying in some unknown
man's house and being ministered to by that man's wife. Pierre--Ramsay
strove to recall the last name and could not. He fell into a quiet
slumber.
The next time he awakened, the candle on his table was burning and his
host--vaguely Ramsay remembered seeing him move hides about the
tannery--was standing near. Like his wife, he was small and gentle, with
a manner that belied the fierce little black mustache clinging to his
upper lip. He was too small and gentle, Ramsay thought, ever to fit
into a town such as Three Points. But certainly he was kind and good. He
smiled, revealing flashing white teeth, and when he did Ramsay
remembered the name, Pierre LeDou.
"How do you feel?" he asked briskly.
"Better." Ramsay grinned.
"He beat you," Pierre LeDou said. "_Sacre!_ But he beat you!" The little
man's eyes roved about the room, as though seeking the solution to a
problem which he must solve, and Ramsay knew that he, too, hated Devil
Chad. "He kicked you!" Pierre LeDou said.
"I know, and some day I'll pay him back for that."
Interest brightened in the little Frenchman's eyes. "You think so,
M'sieu--M'sieu ..."
"Cartou," Ramsay said. "Ramsay Cartou. And I will not kill anybody
unless I have to. But one day this Devil Chad will pay, ten times over,
for everything he did to me."
"He is very hard man." Pierre LeDou sighed.
"So am I!" Ramsay gritted, and again anger rose within him. "Why should
so many people tremble in their boots when he comes around?"